Being Foreign in India

It's weird to be a Westerner in India. I've been waved at by full busloads of schoolgirls in villages who call out to me, "Hallo, hallo" to get my attention. Children approach me constantly, some to practice English which usually consists of little more than "hello" and "what country?", and others with open palms to beg. Men look at me, mostly curiously; some more openly, gaping. A shirt that I brought from home with a neckline that draped (otherwise I was covered) provoked blatant states, some that felt hostile in the bus station at night. I don't know what the men think, or want. Women, by contrast, usually look past me; only the college girls sneak surrepticious glances at my face, my clothes, and wave from afar sitting in groups on campus.

Sometimes, it feels like everyone wants something from me. Whenever Amit and I exit a bus, or a temple, or our hotel, a flurry of calls begin from rickshaw drivers, "Hallo, where are you going?" They pull up alongside us; they try to block our path physically. "What country are you from?" they ask, trying to engage us in conversation. Once we get through the line of rickshaw drivers, the salespeople from the shops begin the same, "What country?" and "Come, look" "Big discount". We are followed by men who seem to adopt us, showing up suddenly at our sides, "What country," "Where are you going?"; they offer rides from rickshaw drivers and promise to take us to hotels that are good bargains. We have discovered - the hard way, when a man in Mysore followed us from hotel to hotel - that these men receive commision for "referring" us to rickshaw drivers or hotels. They are like leeches.

I've gotten really good at "the hand," a gesture that I've watched Indian women perform when bargaining. I lift my chin a bit, looking away as if bored, then raise my hand dismissively toward the rickshaw driver or whoever and show them my palm. I'm also good at just seeming not to hear whoever has showed up beside me. Or, I just say, "No". Some combination of the three tactics works best. As we move out of tourist districts, I don't need to use these as much.

Children are most persistent. I first encountered begging children in Mumbai outside a temple downtown that Hardick and Heena took us to. I was the only white face there. The children flocked to me. At three years old, they saw in my white face the possibility of getting money. The girls were covered in dirt, their hair, faces, their frilly dresses, frail arms and legs. Only their eyes, large and roaming in their petite skulls, were clean of dust. They live in shanty towns next to the temple, in shacks made of plaster, wood, and whatever else the residents can scavenge from the street. One followed me for many feet, tapping me on the thigh gently but consistently, so that I wanted to slap at her. To give coins would mean that the rest would surround me. I ignored her, fighting the urge to slap her away.

In Hampi though, we found that the children asking for rupees were capable of bursting into giggles after a few half-hearted attempts. They were rambunctious; one girl climbed onto the back of my bike for a ride. Three girls stood in front of me at an open-aired shop as their uncle fixed the tire of Amit's bike, and their ringleader pelted me with questions, "What country?", "How old?", "Where was I going?", and I returned her questions, discovering that she was eleven and in 6th level at school. When the youngest girl with them stepped in front of me and requested, "one rupee," her index finger up to indicate "one", the ringleader swatted her in the head; the offender ducked, ashamed, and backed off. The ringleader smiled broadly at me and resumed our conversation.

Yesterday, we were cheated by a rickshaw driver. His rickshaw was not motorized; it was one of the rare human-powered rickshaws that we have seen. He rides a bicycle to pull the cab on the back where we sat. He quoted us a price that was very high when we exited the Ghandi Museum to take us back near the temple. Since we had walked to the Museum, we had a sense of the distance. When we ignored him and proceeded to the book stall, he dropped his price, finally coming down to something that seemed reasonable, and we engaged his services.

I never imagined that I'd be sitting in a two-person cab propelled by the strength of a human being on a bike. I was in awe watching his back, his calves. He was a slight man, smaller than me; he must have been incredibly strong, but his strength wasn't visible, not even in his legs which were visible underneath the tunic he wore. He maneuvered through the traffic expertly, sweeping through rotaries instead of stopping at the light in order not to stop and have to start peddling again. When the road sloped, he got off and pushed the cab upwards. Amit agreed as we watched him ride; we would give him more than we had agreed on.

At one point, he turned to us and called back, "twenty kilometers to the temple." He was lying; he was exagerating by a factor of 6 or 7, maybe 10. When he desposited us, Amit didn't have exact change, and had to give him a larger bill. The driver refused to give change, saying we had agreed on a different price, then, when we nixed that, pretended he didn't have small bills. He tried to bring a bystander into the argument, trying to presuade the man that we had agreed on a higher fare; the man didn't believe him and took our side. The driver then tried to insert his hand into Amit's, to shake. Amit insisted on getting the change. Finally, the driver handed over half of what he owed us to Amit. We were cheated, deliberately and with foresight. The driver drove off smiling with a backward wave.

We've spent time recently around other Westerners (and not backpackers). Two nights ago in Madurai, we went to dinner at a restaurant recommended by "Lonely Planet" at the top of a hotel with a view of the city and the temple. Three-quarters of the diners were white. Despite its elegance by Indian standards, it was still cheap in American dollars. A reality of being in India is that we are economically priveledged; our dollars are worth more. Targeting obvious Westerners is a good strategy for rickshaw drivers and beggar children.

---

---